“It was hard to concentrate,” said McFee, “but I know I’m right. And, brother, that’s good shooting.” “Wish we could know just how much damage we did,” March said. “But you don’t want to know badly enough to surface and find out, do you?” asked Mac with a grin. “The planes will find out when they come along in a few minutes. They’ll tell us—later, just what we did. Anyway the sound man reports that the ships are scattering in so many directions he can’t keep track of them.” Then March heard something else from the sound man. “Sounds as if there’s solid rock below us—at about two hundred eighty feet.” “Wonderful!” cried March. “Settle down to it and we’ll just lie there and rest. Shut off all motors. Then let them try to find us.” “Destroyers coming in up above, sir,” the sound man said. “Pretty slow, weren’t they?” Mac commented. March picked up the phone from the orderly and spoke to the ship. “They’ll be coming any minute now. Hold fast. And we’ll be snug on the bottom.” The first depth charge came far above them, and the shock from it was very slight. But then the submarine bumped slightly as its keel settled gently against the bottom. Motors were shut off and _Kamongo_ tilted a little to one side as it lay down on the sloping shelf of rock at the bottom of the sea. There came the metallic click and then the monstrous b-b-r-r-rrooom of a depth charge to the right and above them. Then one to the left. Then one beyond the bow. Then one beyond the stern. “Laying a nice pattern,” McFee called, as he held fast to the little railing at the periscope well. “That would get us if we were higher,” March said. “They probably figured we’re at about two hundred feet.” “They don’t dare go any lower in their subs, usually,” McFee said, as he braced himself for the next series of charges which shook him. March looked around the control room. Everyone was holding fast, but looking very calm. He phoned forward to the torpedo room to ask how everything was up there. “All fine, sir,” reported Pete Kalinsky. “And nice shootin’, sir.” Room after room reported everything all right. “Just a light filament busted from that last one in here,” said the machinist’s mate from the engine room. March saw that one of the men at the controls was steadying another while he lighted a cigarette. He smiled, and then looked up sharply as a figure appeared in the door at the forward bulkhead. It was Scoot, hanging on groggily and looking angry. “What’s goin’ on here, anyway?” he demanded loudly. “Can’t a guy sleep in peace?” March ran to him, but a depth charge—the closest yet—sent him sprawling to the floor. McFee picked him up, holding fast to the bulkhead while doing so. Then, between explosions, they got Scoot back to his bunk, where they strapped him in place. The young flier went to sleep again peacefully. On the way back to the control room March and McFee stopped to look at the Skipper. Sallini was with him, and he smiled.